


Atonement

by rebeldaydreams



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Father Figure!Dutch, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I tagged this as graphic depictions of violence to be safe, but the descriptions are fairly mild and short!, gender neutral reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-08
Updated: 2019-02-08
Packaged: 2019-10-24 11:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17703764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rebeldaydreams/pseuds/rebeldaydreams
Summary: After a heated argument with Dutch, you storm out of camp but end up getting caught by the O’Driscoll’s. Dutch, Arthur and Charles come to your rescue.





	Atonement

**Author's Note:**

> Angst/Hurt/Comfort fic with a lot of Soft Dutch™ at the end because I live for it. Dutch is a father figure in this story. The Arthur stuff can be whatever you want, platonic or romantic! Works either way. 
> 
> You can read my fics on tumblr also, @rebeldaydreams!

**Notes: H/N = horse name**

It was when most of the camp was gathered round the fire in the early evening that you decided to talk to Dutch. Ideally you'd have preferred a more private setting but a lot of the time he'd shut himself in his room or was “busy”. You were tired of waiting. As you approached the fire and subsequent huddle of people gathered round it – most clutching bottles of beer or whiskey – you caught ear of their conversation.

“Good job today, Arthur.” Dutch said, giving Arthur a congratulatory clap on the shoulder.

“Couldn’t’a done it without you.” He replied.

Hosea piped up from behind them. “Oh and I didn’t do anything I suppose.”

Arthur turned to him and chuckled. “And you, old man.”

Hosea mumbled a begrudged thank you and returned to his drink.

“We’ll be out of here in no time. Especially if we carry on like this.” Dutch said, raising the bottle he held as an unspoken toast.

“And where exactly will we be going?” you asked, stepping forward into the light of the fire as you decided to pitch in. You weren’t sure if it had been the spontaneity of your question, or perhaps the way in which you asked it, but the gang fell silent and heads turned. You looked intently towards Dutch, whose brow had furrowed at your interjection.

“Well...away from here, for starters.” Dutch replied with a small laugh, which was accompanied by a few agreements from the gang. You weren’t sold by his vague answer.

“What happened to “going back to the West”, huh?” you asked. Dutch's smile fell at your response.

“What exactly are you getting at, Y/N?” he asked, watching you carefully. You shrugged.

“I just wanna know what the plan is, Dutch! I’m sick of not knowing, I’m sick of being in a different place every other month!” You said, not as calmly as you’d intended.

Dutch nodded, dropping his now-empty beer bottle on the grass and sliding his hands into his pockets, taking a step towards you.

“We will be out of here soon, I promise you that. All we need is more money, we can’t do anything without more money.” He explained slowly. Your last shred of patience disappeared as the last word left his lips.

“There you go again! All you ever talk about is fucking money!” Your voice was slightly raised now, as much as you were trying to control your temper. You’d just been holding this in so long, it was all coming out whether you wanted it to or not. Dutch remained calm and collected.

“Because we need it, Y/N.” He replied coolly. “I promise you we will be out of here in no time.”

None of the others chipped in or said a word, they stayed silent, listening to the conversation. If it could still be called a conversation. You took a moment to collect your thoughts, trying to put together a coherent sentence.

“I have spent weeks doing what you asked – doing jobs, getting money – with little to no questions asked, because I _trust_ you Dutch. I always have. But look at us.” You gestured vaguely around the camp at Shady Belle. “Hiding in some godforsaken swamp?”

“It’s temporary, Y/N.” Still, Dutch kept his cool. You lost yours.

“Temporary?! _Bullshit!_ We’ve been here for weeks! And still you haven’t told us _anything_! We’ve got O'Driscolls, Raiders and Pinkertons on us every god damn day and we don’t have any kind of plan. I’m fucking tired of it, Dutch!” your voice was shaking with anger, though also maybe relief at finally letting all this out.

“What do you want me to tell you?” Dutch's voice sounded lower, with more of a growl to it, and the volume had increased just slightly.

You looked at him with an incredulous expression.

“Anything! Tell us what your grand plan is, where we’re going from here. I’m sick of going to bed at night and wondering if I’m going to get shot in my sleep.” You paused a moment, narrowing your eyes at him as the realisation hit you. “But you can’t tell us anything, can you. You can’t tell us your 'grand plan’ because you don’t have one.”

There was a glint of something in Dutch's eyes. You couldn’t quite place it.

“I look up to you, Dutch. We all do. I trust you. But if you don’t know where we’re going from here just tell us. Enough with all this “we just need more money” crap. We need an _actual_ god damn plan.”

Dutch stepped even closer, looming over you, but you stood your ground.

“Why don’t you try being the leader, then, Y/N? Since you feel the need to tell me how to do my job.” He growled.

 _“”Do your job”?_ Give me a break, Dutch.” You scoffed at him. “Much as it is hard to believe, the world doesn’t revolve around you, and this camp certainly does not.”

Dutch opened his mouth as if to speak but you cut in again.

“You know what? I’m starting to wish you’d never found me in the first place.” You snapped.

Dutch stood silent for a few moments, taking a step backwards and meeting your gaze.

“Get out.”

The words pierced you like a knife, your stomach turning at hearing them come from his mouth. Arthur stepped forward, grabbing Dutch’s shoulder.

“Dutch, the hell are you-“

“You heard me!” Dutch barked, violently shrugging Arthur off.

You nodded, a fake, forced smile on your face. “You don’t need to ask me twice.”

You turned and stormed off towards your tent. Dutch did the same, retreating to his quarters with not another word.

There was nothing but hushed whispers from the camp for the next 15 minutes as you threw your belongings into your bag - not that you had a lot anyway. You were so deep in your own thoughts that you didn’t hear someone enter your tent behind you.

“Where will you go?” Arthur’s voice sounded and you half turned, not wanting to look him in the eyes.

“I’m not sure yet.” You replied in a quiet voice, almost the polar opposite of how you’d spoken to Dutch minutes earlier.

“You don’t have to leave. Just stay here and-“ Arthur began quietly, but you cut him off.

“Dutch made himself quite clear. I think it’s best if I go.” You said. You picked up your satchel and bag, then turned and finally met Arthur’s gaze.

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” You said, your voice at the risk of breaking. “I just...I need some space.”

You gave him a sorrowful look before passing him and leaving the tent. As you were securing your bags to your horse you heard footsteps behind you. You knew immediately who they belonged to.

“Jus’ be careful, alright.”

Arthur's soft voice made you turn around and as you met his gaze, tears threatened to spill down your cheeks. You nodded, and Arthur reached out with both hands and cupped your face in his palms.

“I’ll speak to Dutch. Okay? You know what his temper his like...” he said. You nodded again, casting your eyes down. You reached a hand up and briefly covered one of his with your own, lightly brushing the back of his hand with your thumb before you moved away to mount your horse.

You cast one quick glance up at the house, seeing Dutch on the balcony with a cloud of cigar smoke swirling above his head, before you spurred your horse with a “hyah!” and started off down the long road.

 

* * *

 

You had a friend who had a little place up near Strawberry – you were going to try them first, see if you could crash with them for a little while. They owed you a favour. You kept running your argument with Dutch through your head. Had you been a complete fool? Maybe. Admittedly, you regretted some of the things you’d said in the heat of the moment. You weren’t going to stay away forever, of course, but it was clear you needed some space from Dutch. 

You’d been riding for maybe 2 hours when suddenly you found your path blocked by two men on horseback, with the barrels of their rifles pointed towards you. You brought your horse to a skidding halt, whipping your head round to see three more men now blocking the path behind you. You cursed under your breath.

“Well well well, if it ain’t one of Dutch's loyal dogs.” Came the thick, Irish voice of one of the men blocking your path. You gripped the reins of your horse with white knuckles.

“Let me guess...Colm’s boys?” you said.

They laughed, and the one who had previously spoken pushed his horse a few steps towards you.

“You are a clever one. Colm has a bit of...unfinished business with Mr Van Der Linde. We were hopin' you could help us out.” He said smoothly. You didn’t take your eyes off him.

“You're very sorely mistaken if you believe I'm going to do anything for you.” You said, your hand hovering near your revolver.

“It’s more what you can _tell_ us, actually.”

You hadn’t heard the men behind you dismount. By the time you did, you didn’t have any time to react. They grabbed you, yanking you down off your horse. You were thrown to the dirt road, but when you reached for your gun you found it wasn’t there. Looking up, you saw one of the O'Driscoll's waving it in his hand.

“Looking for this?”

The last thing you heard was a sequence of laughs, before the butt of your revolver made contact with the back of your head. Amidst the chaos, your Horse reared back, neighing loudly in alarm before he ran. One of the men went to go after him but was stopped.

“Let it go, dumb horse won’t last long on its own.” One of the other men said. “Come on let’s get this one back to the camp.”

Your unconscious form was thrown without care onto the back of one of their horses, and then they made off into the sunset whilst your own horse sped off in the direction you'd come from.

 

* * *

 

 

It was John’s turn to keep watch that night. A few people were still up and about but the majority of camp were in the privacy of their own tents, or asleep. He had resigned to leaning on a nearby tree as he lit up another cigarette. A few serene minutes passed, with only the distant noises of the swamp audible, until a sound made him straighten up and ready his rifle.

“Who's there?” he called out, squinting down the dark road. He could hear a horse, and eventually it came into view. “I said who's the-“

John cut himself off when he noticed that the horse had no rider.

“What the...” he said with a furrowed brow, lowering his gun and stepping out into the road. At the commotion, Arthur had come out of his tent to see what was happening.

“What’s goin' on?” he asked, coming up to stand beside John as he tucked his journal back into his satchel.

“Horse, but no rider.” John said. Your horse was now close enough so that Arthur could see him properly, and his eyes widened.

“That’s Y/N’s horse – H/N.” He said in alarm, breaking into a jog to meet the distressed animal.

“Whoah, whoah, easy boy. Easy…“ he said, raising his hands to the horse, whose eyes were wide. “Easy.”

After a minute or so of gentle encouragement, H/N calmed down enough so Arthur could pet him.

“There we go, sshh...” Arthur cooed.

Dutch, having heard the loud, distressed neighing, had emerged from camp and was approaching Arthur and John.

“What the hell is all the racket?” he asked. Arthur turned to him, his hands still gently petting H/N on the neck. Dutch's gaze rested on the horse. “Is that...?”

Arthur nodded.

“But where’s Y/N?”

Arthur dropped his hands down and shrugged. “No idea. That’s what’s worryin’ me.”

Dutch walked over to the horse to inspect the saddle. He dug around in the saddlebag and found it full, and upon further inspection found your rifle and shotgun were still stowed.

“They wouldn’t just dismount without taking any of this.” Dutch concluded.

“You think something happened?” Arthur asked, a concerned look in his eyes.

“Y/N loves this horse. You really think they’d just up and leave him?” Dutch said. H/N was becoming restless again, trying to pull away from Arthur who was now holding his reigns.

“He’s trying to lead us somewhere.” Dutch said, making for his own horse. “Arthur, mount up on him! Let him take us wherever he wants us to go.”

Arthur nodded at the instruction, climbing up onto your horse. At the very least, Arthur was glad that Dutch wasn’t still angry at you seeing at how quickly he’d jumped into action at the very thought of you being in danger.

“Charles! We need an extra gun.” Dutch shouted back into camp.

Charles, who had been crouching by the fire, voiced his acknowledgement and whistled for his own horse. Arthur gave H/N an encouraging pat and gentle prod with his spurs and he broke into a gallop down the path, Dutch and Charles following close behind.

The three had been riding for a couple of hours when, eventually, H/N came to a stop in the middle of a road, still seeming quite distressed.

Arthur shushed him, giving him a praising pat.  “Good boy.”

Dutch dismounted The Count, followed swiftly by Arthur and Charles.

“Look around for any clues that could tell us what happened.” Dutch instructed, and the three began scouting the immediate area. Arthur knelt a few feet from where they’d stopped, inspecting something in the dirt.

“Blood.” He said, running his finger along the dirt. “There was some kinda struggle here, for sure.”

“There’s tracks, here. Look.” Charles said, beckoning them over to him. “Not fresh, but they lead off road.”

Dutch mounted back up on his horse without a second thought. “Let’s go.”

The three made off in the direction of the tracks, with Charles leading the way. They rode a short while, coming to the edge of a forest. Charles held up his hand as a signal to stop.

“Voices. Through the trees.” He said quietly. “Leave the horses here, we should go forward on foot.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Do we gotta keep doin' this? Where's Van Der Linde’s fucking money?”

The O'Driscoll doing the interrogating was using both hands to hold you roughly by the collar of your shirt, now stained with your own blood. Your hands were tied above your head with coarse rope to a makeshift hook on the ceiling, your feet barely brushing the ground. Your face was painted with bruises and your lip split and bleeding. They’d kicked you in the shins, punched you in the stomach, and hadn’t given up with their assault just yet.

You lifted your beaten face and stared him down.

“Up your fucking ass.”

Another hard swing to your face sent you reeling backwards. You’d held it reasonably together so far, but you were starting to break. The pain was starting to get to you.

_“Fuck, why did I get into that stupid argument and walk out...they’re never going to come and find me. I’m going to die in this fucking cellar.”_

Your thoughts raced around like untamed horses, but you were brought sharply back to reality when the O'Driscoll brandished a knife in front of your face.

“I’d say I was hopin’ it wouldn’t come to this, but to be honest...I was really hopin' it would.” He grinned.

You just stared him down, trying to hide the fact that your heart was beating out of your chest.

“So, where’s the money.” He asked once more, holding the knife firmly against your cheek. You didn’t say anything, just glared at him.

“Fine.” He said, and pulled the knife sharply across your cheek. You bit down on your tongue but a strangled noise of pain still escaped you. Blood ran freely down your face from the fresh cut. The O'Driscoll grabbed your throat, his patience clearly wavering.

“Tell me where the fucking money is you little piece of shit.”

“You’re...just gonna...have to kill me...” you said, voice slightly strained from the grip he had around your neck.

“Oh but I’m just starting to have fun.” He said darkly.

You didn’t know how much longer you could last. You were hurting everywhere, all you wanted to do was sleep. The O'Driscoll had dropped to his knees in front of you and lifted your shirt up enough to expose part of your stomach.

“Seeing as you’re so loyal to that bastard...” he said, with a small, sinister laugh.  

The moment the knife broke your skin, you let out a wail. You tried to pull away but your bonds denied you any such movement. He carved into your stomach and finally you broke, unable to hold back your screams of agony any longer. The O’Driscoll paused for a moment and you distantly heard the word that fell from your lips.

“Please...” you said weakly. Tears were falling down your cheeks now, mixing with the blood, and sweat glistened on your forehead.

He said nothing but was revelling in your beg for relief. Still, he returned his knife to your skin. You wailed, thrashing in your bonds until you thought you might pass out.

“There.” He stood, admiring his handiwork. He grabbed your chin, forcing you to look down as he held up your shirt. On your stomach, he’d crudely carved the letters “D.V.D.L”.

“Now...” he stood inches from you, locking eyes with yours. You were pale and drenched in sweat, tears and blood. It was a marvel you were still conscious. “Last chance.”

You didn’t even have the time to think of an answer before you were interrupted with gunfire and raised voices from outside.

“What the fuck?” your torturer muttered, going across to the door. Before his hand touched the doorknob, it was kicked open and he stumbled backwards. You squinted towards the door, trying to see who it was through your bleary vision.

The sound of a gunshot filled the small room, and the O'Driscoll fell in a heap to the floor.

“Goddamn asshole.”

You’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“A-Arthur...?” you said in a strained voice.

He crossed the room and immediately pulled out his knife to cut you free, moving to step behind you.

“Thank Christ you ain’t dead.” Arthur said. “It’s me, darlin', you’re ok...and Charles, and...”

“Y/N.“ Dutch stepped over the dead O'Driscoll on the floor, making his way over to you as Arthur got started on cutting through the ropes holding your wrists. “Thank god you’re alive.”

He stopped in front of you, and his brow creased as he took in your ragged appearance. “What did they do to you...”

“D-Dutch...I'm s-so sorry, I-I....” you stammered, fresh tears (of relief, mostly) falling down your cheeks. Dutch shushed you, gently taking your face in his hands whilst being wary of the cut on your left cheek.

“Its all right. You’re alive, that’s all that matters.” He said, wiping away your tears and trying not to disturb any of the abrasions on your face.

Arthur finally cut through the ropes around your wrists and you fell into Dutch, your legs refusing to work. He caught you, quickly sliding one arm under your legs to carry you.

Charles met them as they left the O'Driscoll's cabin, a look of relief crossing his face when he saw you were alive.

“Place is clear, from what I can see.” He said. “I got the horses, too.”

You were ready to pass out, your head resting against Dutch's shoulder as he carried you across to your horse where Arthur had already mounted up.

“You take them-“ Dutch said, and Arthur leaned down to help lift you up, sitting you in front of him.

“I’ll scout around and make sure there’s no more nearby. See you back at camp.” Charles said, mounting up on his own horse.

Arthur mumbled a farewell before following Dutch back to Shady Belle. On the way back he made sure to speak to you, trying to keep you awake. It was a long ride back to camp, and you were fighting to keep your eyes open. Not trusting yourself enough to stay upright, you leaned back into Arthur, your head falling against his shoulder. He secured an arm around you to hold you against him, trying his best to not disturb any injuries he couldn’t see.

“Nearly there, sweetheart.” Arthur mumbled to you eventually.

Upon arrival to the camp, as the horse came to a halt, you became incredibly dizzy. You just about could make out Arthur's voice.

“Shit, Y/N’s passin' out. HEY! WE NEED HELP OVER HERE!”

You blacked out for a little while, only to blearily regain consciousness some time later. You were being carried somewhere. Was that Dutch's voice?

“Lay them down – careful!”

You looked worse now. Or maybe Arthur just hadn’t had a proper look of you in that cabin. Miss Grimshaw turned up at your tent with a box of medical supplies and a bowl of water, placing them on the table next to the bed.

“They do look in a bad way.” she said, kneeling beside Arthur who was beginning to look you over. Normally, Arthur wouldn’t have anything to do with this and just leave Miss Grimshaw to her work (as she is very good at it) but with you, it was different. He didn’t want to leave your side.

Dutch, meanwhile, stood watching from behind. Arthur was rummaging around in the box, pulling out some rags and soaking them in the water.

“Nothin’ too serious, I think. They beat ‘em half to hell, the bastards, but at least they didn’t kill ‘em.” He said, pressing the cloth to your forehead and making a start on washing away the blood and dirt on your face.

A blood stain on the lower half of your shirt caught Dutch's eye. “Wait – under their shirt there.”

Arthur carefully lifted your shirt up, feeling the damp material peeling away from your skin. His breath caught as he saw the cause of the blood. Dutch's hands curled into tight fists at the sight of his own initials carved into your skin.

“Shit...” Arthur muttered.

“Sick bastards!” Miss Grimshaw exclaimed with a gasp.

“Colm will pay for this.” Dutch growled through gritted teeth. “Take care of Y/N...I’ll be...alone. I need some time to think.”

Arthur watched him leave before turning his attention back to you. He and Miss Grimshaw took care of your wounds fine, mostly it was scrapes and bruises, but just when they’d finish with one they’d find another. There were also the wounds they couldn’t see – the non-physical ones.

“Who knows what they put 'em through.” Arthur mumbled, watching as you slept. The peaceful expression on your face calmed him.

Miss Grimshaw had just finished dressing the cut on your cheek and was putting the medical supplies back into the box. “They’ll be just be fine, they’re tough. Get that from you.”

Arthur nodded with a small smile at her comment, letting his hand briefly rest over yours.

“We should let them rest. You should get some sleep too, Arthur.”

“Yeah.” Arthur cleared his throat and stood, looking down at you. Miss Grimshaw seemed to sense his worry and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“They’ll be awake in a few hours. You need sleep, Mr Morgan.” She said, in a firm but caring manner.

“Yeah, I know. You're right.”

She left, but before Arthur did the same, he lightly brushed the back of his fingers across your cheek and pressed a kiss to your forehead. You didn’t stir as he left. He glanced back at you once more before letting the tent flap fall shut.

 

* * *

 

 

The next time you woke, it was early in the morning. The flaps of your tent were blowing gently in the breeze and the light poking through the cracks was that of a sun which had only just risen. Outside was quiet, except for some birds singing in the trees. You felt disorientated and confused at first, as you opened your eyes. You were back in your tent in camp. You remembered Arthur and Dutch rescuing you....Dutch. That would be an interesting conversation to have later.

You had no memory of how you got back, so assumed you’d been unconscious for most of it. The more you woke up, the more you became aware of your injuries. You shifted slightly in your bed and winced at a dull pain from near your waist. You moved your hand over the area, sliding it under your shirt (finding that your wrists were sore in the process) and felt bandages beneath your fingertips. Memory of the O'Driscoll carving into your skin flashed in your mind and you squeezed your eyes shut, letting your hand drop back down to your side. You tried to sit up but immediately regretted it, groaning as your head throbbed and every other part of your body seemed to ache at the movement.

“Careful.” A voice from the doorway startled you and you snapped your head to the side. The light outside made it hard to see who your visitor was, but you would recognise that voice anywhere.

“Dutch.” You said weakly, your head dropping back down to your pillow. In that moment a million thoughts flooded your head. Was he still angry with you? You were half expecting a rant from him. However the warm smile he gave you as he stepped inside told you otherwise. Seeing you still halfway to a sitting position, he crossed the expanse of your tent and slipped his arm beneath your shoulders to help you sit up, propping up your pillow with his other hand. You mumbled a thanks as he pulled a chair up to your bedside.

“How you doing?” he asked.

“I’m ok.” You said quietly, squinting up at him as your eyes got used to the light. He looked tired, you noticed. “How long was I out?”

Dutch pulled out his pocket watch and examined it. “Nearly 14 hours now.”

Your eyes widened.

“No wonder I feel like shit...” you mumbled.

Dutch emitted a quiet laugh, though when he next spoke there was a hint of something in his voice – perhaps anger, at the people who hurt you. “Well, that and being beaten half to death.”

You looked over at him. “Did you-?”

He cut you off. “They’re dead.”

You looked up to the roof of your tent, muttering a quiet; “Good.”

You sighed quietly, unable to bear the silence even for a few moments.  You had too much on your mind. “Listen, Dutch, I-“

He waved his hand to stop you, clearly already knowing what you were going to say, but you didn’t let him stop you.

“No, I need to say this.” You said firmly and, in a manner quite unlike himself, Dutch sat back in his chair and went silent.

Why were you suddenly so nervous about saying this? Maybe it had something to do with the intimacy of the situation. Dutch was rather an intimidating person, after all. Not that you were scared of him, of course, he just had a very particular aura about him. And maybe it also had something to do with the fact that you looked up to him and respected him and the very last thing you’d ever want to do was upset him or let him down.

You took a deep, shaky breath before speaking, trying to recall all the time you’d spent in that cellar figuring out what you’d say to Dutch if you ever got out of it alive.

“I…I’m sorry for what I said, I didn’t mean it, I was just…” You sighed, looking down at your clasped hands in your lap. “I got angry an’ upset and I wasn’t thinking straight.”

You felt a lump rise in your throat and your voice threatened to break as you spoke.

“What I said, ‘bout wishing you had never found me and taken me in…it wasn’t true, any of it. This gang’s best thing that’s happened to me, Dutch.”

If you’d looked up then, you’d have seen Dutch’s furrowed brow as he listened intently, and the smile on his face from your confession. He reached out and covered both your hands with one of his, catching your eye.

“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you to leave, I…” He shook his head and looked down briefly. “Honestly, I regretted it as soon as I said it but, well, perhaps my pride got the better of me. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You blinked at him, surprised by what he’d said. He didn’t exactly say “I was wrong” (that’d be the day), but it was close enough.

“If I hadn’t lost my temper in the first place then none of this would have ever happened to you.” He had the sincerest look in his eyes that you’d ever seen as he looked down to where his hand covered yours, lightly brushing his fingers over the bandages that were covering the nasty rope burns on your wrists.

“I am sorry, Y/N.”

Perhaps you’d misheard him, but it sounded like his voice wavered and your heart broke at the sound of it.

“This ain’t your fault.” You squeezed his hand to reaffirm your statement. “You had no idea this was gonna happen, Dutch. Please don’t blame yourself.”

He nodded.

“I know, I know…you’re right. As usual.” He added with a small smile. You leaned across, only getting halfway towards him before your injuries protested at the movement. You stifled a small groan.

“Look, would ya’ get over here so I can hug you.” You said, irritated at your immobility.

Dutch chuckled, obliging your request and shuffling forwards in his seat enough to embrace you in a half hug so as not to accidentally hurt you. One of your arms wound around his shoulders and you buried your face in his chest, inhaling his familiar scent and soaking in his warmth. He brought one hand up to brush through your hair and he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“Can you promise me somethin’?” You mumbled into his shirt. He pulled back to look at you, bringing his hand to your cheek.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Go get some sleep.” You said with a smile. He laughed.

“Alright. I promise.”

 


End file.
